


Oliver at the Piano

by thefallenballerina



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drabble, Flashbacks, M/M, Music, Non-Explicit Sex, Oliver is Very Sad, References to Canon, Set in the future, Sorry Not Sorry, Stream of Consciousness, baby elio, let's face it guys i just need validation as a writer, oliver angst, oliver is having deep thoughts, oliver isn't literally hearing voices guys don't worry, oliver's fiancee - Freeform, piano fic, younger parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 20:51:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14144316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefallenballerina/pseuds/thefallenballerina
Summary: Oliver inherits a piano. Almost reminds him of someone...But, of course, he's not thinking of that.





	Oliver at the Piano

**Author's Note:**

> I got Sad a week or two ago and wrote this, hope you enjoy!

He was doing it, and resolutely informing himself over and over and over again that he was not doing it for the reason he was doing it. Right.

One hand. Left. No-not left. Right.

Right.

_D. D. G._ That was fine. He could do this.

_D. D. G._ A repeat. Easy enough.

_D-C-B-A G-A-B-C_ Tricky, not impossible. Less intimidating if he took it slowly.

_D. D. G._ A final repeat, and that was the song. Huh. Okay.

He had gotten the piano in his aunt’s estate after she passed. They hadn’t seen each other in years--had she meant for him to sell it? Keep it and learn how to play? He didn’t even know what his plan was yet.

_But you’ll keep it._ Said a voice in his head, the voice that sounded the way sunlight felt when it shone on his bare chest. _You’ll keep it because it reminds you of me._

He had signed up for one lesson. It couldn’t be too impossible. It would be something to do instead of thinking about what he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. Wasn’t thinking about. Was not. Absolutely. Not.

His name--his own name and not his own name--hovered around his lips like a bit of dandelion fluff. So soft, with a shadow of an itch. Like he badly needed to sneeze. He lays his fingers over the keys again and strings together the first two lines. Not so bad. His teacher would be pleased. Practice is the most important thing, she had said. He had chosen an add out of the paper, a woman specifically. Specifically, because he didn’t need anymore--reminders. _Unwelcome gifts_. That voice again.

He found himself attempting to construct a picture of--him at his first piano lesson. His--no, him. Not his anything. _Not anymore, anyway._ God, he could have a smart mouth when his parents weren’t around, the only American streak in him probably.

But would it have been a lesson? He was certain Samuel and Annella must have been musical themselves to have a son so prodigious. Perched next to his father on the worn wooden bench, then. Back straight, tiny feet dangling, curly mop of hair wagging as he bobbed his head every fourth beat. Mouth held in a straight line, concentrated, unusually serious for such a happy, bubbly boy. Samuel still in his first years as a teacher, less gray, a few pounds thinner. Oliver had seen the pictures from those years, caught him making a slight grimace as he passed behind his mother with the photo album in her lap, headphones on and music blaring. 

He studied his conjured image a moment, what would the song have been? Oh--of course, the Italian children’s tune with the bells tolling, what was it called? He couldn’t remember. Maybe it would come to him that night, slam him out of another aching wet dream all sun and skin and rushing water of the river the river the river with a name on his lips that did not belong to his fiancee. 

It’s always the first moment he entered him. Nothing, nothing could ever succeed that. It’s the middle of the night in his dreams, as it was in reality, but he hears the birds chirping, the river speaking to them in its own wet language--as the two of them part of the Earth as much as they were part of one another. 

Responsibility. Real life. Fiancee. 

The baby at the piano with his papa. It hurt to think about, of course it did. His stout little fingers plucking out each note, his father holding his hand to guide him at first, delighted at how quickly he got to it on his own. The swell of pride between them both when he accomplished the two bars by himself and immediately asking for more to learn. 

_ More. More. _ His favorite. Forever wanting to be overwhelmed by whatever could overwhelm him. 

He often found himself gazing at children in central park, in pastry shops, in schoolyards, being toted around by their mothers, pulled by the hand and pushed in carriages. Wondering if their paths were already set out for them. Who they would love, and how. If they had any say in it at all. If he had. 

If, at birth, a soul might send out a signal like a burst of light to click around and around the globe until its mate was found, and then clinging to it. On the same circuit forever after, and, if the two bodies held each other, would the occupants be blinded by it? Never quite blinking away the afterimage when they broke apart? It would make sense. It would make decent sense.

He recalled their afternoon in the sitting room vividly, of course he did, too precious to ever let a second of it go. The bend he had developed in his spine due to his height reaching the keys, those spindly fingers perfectly curled over them, never quite sitting still. Thin as a rail but not a straight line on him. 

_ Impossibly curved _ . A whisper in his mind, god that voice. That voice. Those hands. The way his mouth opened and his eyelids lowered just when he hit the climax of the piece--the connection in his mind was immediate, how could he not see it? 

Had he done it on purpose? Put ideas in his head when he needn’t go to the trouble at all, he had enough imagination for an entire summer, an entire lifetime. 

A young Bach, dedicated to his brother. 

His brother. Dedicated

He could still taste him. His flesh. His essence in his throat--nectar and salt. Stone fruit and earth. 

Every note speaking through him, him speaking through the note. The words he couldn’t say, so he let the music do it for him.  _ Each time I play, for you. Elio. _

_ D. Elio. _

_ D. Elio. _

_ G. Oliver. _

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are presents for writers, drop me one if you liked this!  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
